Babylon Revisited by F. Scott Fitzgerald, JAMES L. W. WEST III Page B

me.”
    They followed him out the far door, through a deserted pantry and up a pair of dark winding stairs, emerging finally into a small room chiefly furnished by piles of pails and stacks of scrubbing brushes, and illuminated by a single dim electric light. There he left them, after soliciting two dollars and agreeing to return in half an hour with a quart of whiskey.
    “George is makin’ money, I bet,” said Key gloomily as he seated himself on an inverted pail. “I bet he’s making fifty dollars a week.”
    Rose nodded his head and spat.
    “I bet he is, too.”
    “What’d he say the dance was of?”
    “A lot of college fellas. Yale College.”
    They both nodded solemnly at each other.
    “Wonder where that crowda sojers is now?”
    “I don’t know. I know that’s too damn long to walk for me.”
    “Me too. You don’t catch me walkin’ that far.”
    Ten minutes later restlessness seized them.
    “I’m goin’ to see what’s out here,” said Rose, stepping cautiously toward the other door.
    It was a swinging door of green baize and he pushed it open a cautious inch.
    “See anything?”
    For answer Rose drew in his breath sharply.
    “Doggone! Here’s some liquor I’ll say!”
    “Liquor?”
    Key joined Rose at the door, and looked eagerly.
    “I’ll tell the world that’s liquor,” he said, after a moment of concentrated gazing.
    It was a room about twice as large as the one they were in—and in it was prepared a radiant feast of spirits. There were long walls of alternating bottles set along two white covered tables; whiskey, gin, brandy, French and Italian vermouths, and orange juice, not to mention an array of syphons and two great empty punch bowls. The room was as yet uninhabited.
    “It’s for this dance they’re just starting,” whispered Key; “hear the violins playin’? Say, boy, I wouldn’t mind havin’ a dance.”
    They closed the door softly and exchanged a glance of mutual comprehension. There was no need of feeling each other out.
    “I’d like to get my hands on a coupla those bottles,” said Rose emphatically.
    “Me too.”
    “Do you suppose we’d get seen?”
    Key considered.
    “Maybe we better wait till they start drinkin’ ’em. They got ’em all laid out now, and they know how many of them there are.”
    They debated this point for several minutes. Rose was all for getting his hands on a bottle now and tucking it under his coat before any one came into the room. Key, however, advocated caution. He was afraid he might get his brother in trouble. If they waited till some of the bottles were opened it’d be all right to take one, and everybody’d think it was one of the college fellas.
    While they were still engaged in argument George Key hurried through the room and, barely grunting at them, disappeared by way of the green baize door. A minute later they heard several corks pop, andthen the sound of crackling ice and splashing liquid. George was mixing the punch.
    The soldiers exchanged delighted grins.
    “Oh, boy!” whispered Rose.
    George reappeared.
    “Just keep low, boys,” he said quickly. “I’ll have your stuff for you in five minutes.”
    He disappeared through the door by which he had come.
    As soon as his footsteps receded down the stairs, Rose, after a cautious look, darted into the room of delights and reappeared with a bottle in his hand.
    “Here’s what I say,” he said, as they sat radiantly digesting their first drink. “We’ll wait till he comes up, and we’ll ask him if we can’t just stay here and drink what he brings us—see. We’ll tell him we haven’t got any place to drink it—see. Then we can sneak in there whenever there ain’t nobody in that there room and tuck a bottle under our coats. We’ll have enough to last us a coupla days—see?”
    “Sure,” agreed Rose enthusiastically. “Oh, boy! And if we want to we can sell it to sojers any time we want to.”
    They were silent for a moment thinking rosily of this idea.